


Personas

by quietkerfluffle (giraffeminion)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anthea Ships it with Force if Necessary, Established Relationship, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft struggles with self-doubt, Mystrade Monday, References to childhood isolation, Relationship Trouble, background Johnlock, even Sherlock ships it, mystrade, swimming can be meditative, this is my first multi-chapter fic please be gentle with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/quietkerfluffle
Summary: “I’ll grab a cab,” Mycroft says, finally looking Greg in the eye. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Greg smiles back, though, knowing “cab” is code for the sleek black government cars. His friends crush him in bear hugs and gentle ribbing.“Great guy, even if he’s not your usual type.”“Super chill.”“So funny. The man has a wicked sense of humor.”Their comments wash over him, and the unease stirs in his gut. No one in the history of the world has ever described Mycroft as “chill.”Mystrade Monday prompt for “Don’t try to fix me, I’m not broken.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 25
Kudos: 102





	1. Pub, with Greg's Friends

Mycroft shows up to the pub in jeans and a sweatshirt. He slings one arm casually around Greg’s shoulders and leans in.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, babe?”

Greg realizes his mouth is hanging open. ( _Jeans? Sweatshirt? Casual? BABE??_ )

Introductions are made, and Greg can’t help stare at Mycroft across the table. He’s drinking beer ( _beer?_ ), leaning back in his chair, and digs an elbow into Greg’s friend Jake. He throws back his head and laughs _._

“You got it bad, huh?” Greg startles, and turns to face Clayton. 

“Hm? Ya,” he answers distractedly. 

“Seems like a decent guy,” Clayton observes. “What did you say he does?”

“Works for the government,” Greg says automatically. “Department of Transportation.”

“Government?” Clayton whistles. “At least he’s not stuffy like most of those arseholes. Looking down their noses at people.”

Greg remembers being on the receiving end of just that look two days ago. He shifts uneasily.

Clayton launches into a play-by-play of their last match, punctuated by memories of Greg’s own -- much earlier -- glory days as a striker, and Greg gradually relaxes into the back-and-forth. Clayton is dating someone new, and gleefully retells the story of his unfortunate accident with a park bench which led to a fortunate rescue by a pretty lady with basic first aid skills. 

Greg grins, glancing over at Mycroft with quiet wonder that he might actually be getting on with his mates. It’s an uneasy thrill, though, underlined by a queer tension in his gut. Mycroft barely glances his way.

Eventually it’s late, late enough that men with real day jobs and responsibilities have to wrap up their reminiscing about better times. Mycroft clasps hands with Jake and the guys, claps Clayton on the shoulder. He’s slouching ever so slightly, Greg realizes, a relaxed posture that’s not his usual crisp spine. 

“I’ll grab a cab,” Mycroft says, finally looking Greg in the eye. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Greg smiles back, though, knowing “cab” is code for the sleek black government cars.

His friends crush him in bear hugs and gentle ribbing. 

“Great guy, even if he’s not your usual type.”

“Super chill.”

“So funny. The man has a wicked sense of humor.”

Their comments wash over him, and the unease stirs in his gut. No one in the history of the world has ever described Mycroft as “chill.” He steps outside to find Mycroft waiting with a taxi. A real taxi. Greg frowns but clambers into the backseat beside him. The taxi slides into traffic and Mycroft sighs, a barely audible but long exhale like the slow leak of a tire as he sinks liquid into the seat. 

Greg reaches for his hand, squeezes. “That went well?” He’s not sure why it’s a question. Mycroft only nods, eyes closed. His hand is limp in Greg’s.

Greg squeezes his hand again and lets go, watching Mycroft lean sideways to rest his head on the window glass. 

When they reach his flat, Greg climbs out first and unlocks the door. He watches Mycroft slide by him and trudge up the stairs, tension curdling in his stomach. He puts the kettle on, then looks over at Mycroft standing at the window, gazing down at the street. He approaches gently, reaching to touch Mycroft’s shoulder.

“My?” His stomach lurches when Mycroft flinches away. There’s a pause. 

“My brother,” Mycroft pauses deliberately, “is not the only one who can take on personas that are not his own.” His voice is modulated, careful as usual, but with a tight undercurrent. He’s still not looking at Greg.

“I do it every day,” Mycroft waves his hand. “Perform, that is. Although stiff civil servant may be closer to my natural state.”

Greg smiles at that, but Mycroft does not.

He inhales slowly. “I prepared for this evening. I studied the way I used to study politics and international economics and cultural customs. I wanted to perform well.” Mycroft's tone is bitter now. “I wanted them to like me.” He turns to Greg, finally. “How would you rate me?”

His mouth is turned up wryly, but his eyes are tired, tired and sad. 

_Oh no._ Greg reaches again, this time to cup his face, waiting a beat in case he shies away. His thumb caresses smooth cheekbone, and Mycroft sighs minutely, leans just a little bit into his touch. 

“You were wonderful,” Greg says, fighting to keep his voice steady, and Mycroft’s eyes scrunch closed at that.

“You _are_ wonderful. But I’m sorry that you felt obligated to perform. That I put you in a position where you felt obligated to perform.” Mycroft tenses.

Greg rubs his cheek lightly again. “I’m sorry that I didn’t make you feel like you would be accepted as yourself.”

Mycroft’s face crumples in on itself, and he sits heavily on the window sill, hands covering his face as his shoulders heave. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Greg can’t seem to do anything but repeat himself. “Can I hold you?”

“You may,” Mycroft whispers wetly, with a broken laugh that just sets him off again, and Greg wraps his arm around his shoulders and cradles his head to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into his hair. “I’m sorry. You’re perfect, you’re wonderful, you’re brilliant and kind and supportive and I lo-” Greg stumbles on the word “like,” and he’s sure Mycroft has noticed, but he plunges on, “...I like you just the way you are, and you never have to change, for me or for anyone. You deserve so much better. I’m so, so sorry.”

He’s petting Mycroft’s hair; when he breathes in he realizes that he even smells different, muskier. He wants to laugh hysterically, but he keeps brushing his fingers lightly over his scalp and feels him soften from rigid to boneless, his breath quieting and slowing.

“Come lie down?” He wipes his thumb gently one at a time under each of Mycroft’s puffy eyes, hoping Mycroft doesn’t try to leave, doesn’t want to leave. He wouldn’t blame him if he does.

But Mycroft nods against his chest. He sniffs, feeling under his face the damp blotch on Greg’s shirt and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Greg holds him tighter. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He gently pulls him up, arm supporting his waist until he sinks onto the bed. Mycroft blinks, begins to mechanically reach for his buttons but comes up against the strings of the hoodie. Greg grabs the bottom of the shirt to wrestle it gently over his head, then kneels to untie his trainers. ( _Trainers._ ) He slips them off and places them under the bed with the socks laid neatly on top. He stands to grab Mycroft’s sleep set.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispers, fingering the soft flannel. Greg kisses him softly on the forehead and braces him as he clumsily pulls off the jeans and pulls on the red plaid. 

“Do you want to take this off?” Greg tugs lightly on the unfamiliar t-shirt, but Mycroft shakes his head and rolls onto the bed facing the wall. 

He's thinking maybe he should sleep in the other room, but Mycroft turns to look at him, stretches out his arm.

“Stay, please.”

Greg squeezes his hand, letting go reluctantly to fold Mycroft’s clothes and find his own tattered bottoms. He doesn’t want to wear a shirt, but…

“It’s fine,” Mycroft says tiredly, turning back to face the wall. “Come to bed.”

He slides under the covers, snaking his arm across Mycroft’s waist, but Mycroft shifts to curl into him, burrowing into his chest. “I’m sorry,” Greg whispers once more into his hair. Mycroft just breathes, with forced steadiness that eventually slides into a natural rhythm. Greg doesn’t relax until Mycroft is warm and pliant in his arms. 

Suddenly he remembers the CD he found in his sound system when he got home yesterday. The haunting lyrics wind through his consciousness: “ _Don’t try to fix me, I’m not broken…_ ” He closes his eyes to the hot tears that snake down the sides of his face. 

Sleep does not come quickly. 


	2. Pub, with John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg can't stop thinking about what happened.

Greg must’ve slept deeper than he thought, because Mycroft is gone before he wakes. He shouldn’t be surprised, probably, but he still is, and unsettled as well. He’s distracted all day; Sally has to wave her hands in front of his face to get his attention, and apparently it wasn’t the first time. Throughout paperwork and meetings and more paperwork and shite coffee and underwhelming lunch, he worries. There are no texts, but that shouldn’t surprise him either. Mycroft rarely initiates.

After work, though the sun had set hours ago, Greg goes for a walk. There’s no particular destination, even as hunger begins to gnaw at his insides. If he were to self-reflect for a second, he might realize that he’s attempting to punish himself. He doesn’t go there, though. He continues to walk heedlessly through dark London streets and wrestle with guilt. Guilt, shame, and a strong surge of defensiveness that he shoves ruthlessly back down. He’s felt inadequate at highbrow social engagements with Mycroft at times, but somehow it’s not the same.

He comes home late with Mycroft’s favorite takeaway, but things are off. They don’t address it.

The next day passes with much the of same. He wakes up; Mycroft has already gone. He’s distracted at work, and Mycroft doesn’t contact him. To be fair, he doesn’t contact Mycroft, either. He doesn’t know what to say.

He thinks back to last night. He came home to Mycroft with his Work Headphones on. He had placed the box of curry at the edge of the table, a careful distance from any and all Mycroft’s tech and paperwork ( _can’t have food stains on who-knows-how-classified documents, can we?_ ). Mycroft had looked up briefly, his eyes complicated before he nodded and looked back to his screen. Greg had caught a wisp of a smile, but it was the polite kind, the kind that the front desk attendants got when Mycroft walked through a hotel lobby.

His mind treads a well-worn circle of confusion, guilt, and fear. He tries not to think too hard about that last one, and does passably well until John Watson shows up, sans Sherlock. Not good.

“Erm, I don’t really have a case--” he starts, frantically trying to think of something that might interest a bored, genius consulting detective.

John sits down. “Not here for a case.”

Greg eyes him warily: John texts, usually.

“Come for a pint?”

The wall clock tells Greg that most people’s work hours ended a while ago. He’s not getting much done anyway, so he shrugs into his coat and follows John to the pub. John winds his way through the tables but passes their usual seats. He slides into a back booth, the one they only sit at when they have to Talk About Things.

Greg has nervously folded the paper napkin over and over on itself until it can fold no more before he finally breaks.

“John. What is it?”

John sighs, placing his glass carefully on the table. “Sherlock said you needed to talk to me.” Greg’s small frown elicits another sigh. “He didn’t tell me why, exactly, but I figure it must be about Mycroft, yeah?”

Greg massages his temples. “How..?”

With a grimace, John explains: Sherlock’s disgruntled noise at the morning’s news, followed by a comment about ill-humour, followed by vague directions for John to go deal with Lestrade.

“It was politics, on the news,” John says, “not crimes. So I figured, based on his comment, well,” he waves his hand generally in Greg’s direction, looking embarrassed.

 _Dear god._ Greg ignores the urge to check his news app. He really doesn’t want to know what Sherlock had seen to make the connection between him and Mycroft...quarreling? Were they quarreling?

John clears his throat gruffly, and Greg starts.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

One thing Greg likes about John is that he doesn’t pry. Well, he is now, but that’s because Sherlock told him to, and Greg knows that if he were to shake his head no, all John would do is nod and they’d move on to other things. Greg sits with his thoughts for a moment. What does Sherlock think he needs, and does that match up with what he thinks himself?

He thinks he knows, but he doesn’t know how to ask.

“Sometimes for cases, Sherlock goes undercover, yeah?”

John nods, face neutral. Greg knows this already.

“And sometimes he is disguised for that, yeah? He takes on a different--” here Greg swallows, hearing Mycroft’s quiet voice say, _personas_ , “--characters.”

John nods again.

“Has he ever--” Greg stops. Sherlock is one of the few people Greg knows that is brilliantly and impossibly himself. No filter, no pretending for the sake of politeness, no withholding, and no self-consciousness about it, at least as far as Greg can see. “Have you ever seen him do it when he’s not on a case?”

“Hm,” John tilts his head, considering. “He used to practice his new get-ups on me until I blew up at him one day. Told him that losing my trust wasn’t worth having a test subject to try on a new costume.” He smiles wryly. “He’s fooled me an embarrassing amount of times.”

Greg feels sick to his stomach.

“I guess those were really still for a case, though,” John amends. “Even if it were a hypothetical future case.” Somehow, that doesn’t make Greg feel all that much better. ‘

“Does he ever use it for…” Greg struggles for the right word, “...social purposes?” John considers again, shakes his head.

“Honestly, you, Mycroft and I are his social circle. Not much reason to pretend.” They lapse into silence.

“He did tell me,” John begins carefully, “a bit about what growing up was like for him. What with the Holmes’ geniusness.”

Greg winces. That can’t have been pretty.

“From what I can gather, he didn’t have a lot of friends when he was younger, probably couldn’t relate on their level and didn’t know enough to pretend to fit in. Then when he did learn it, well, having friends who like the pretend-you just makes it worse, I figure, when you find out they despise the real you.” John lets that sink in.

“He’s never said as much, but I would guess that’s why he is the way he is now. Defiant. Abrasive.” He laughs humorously. “At the risk of sounding like my therapist, it seems like a defensive coping mechanism.”

Greg feels a stab of sympathy. What was it like for Mycroft?

“Based on the bits and pieces he’s dropped over the years, sounds like Mycroft went the opposite way.”

Greg scowls at John, who laughs again, sheepishly this time.

“Sorry. You live with a detective long enough you start picking up some of his methods. Isn’t this the real reason why you’re asking, anyway?”

Suppose he can’t disagree with that. He gestures at John to continue.

“I think, well. I think Mycroft got so good at pretending that he got lost in it. Or, he chose to submerge himself completely and live as though he were someone else. I’m not sure he knows when he’s pretending, or if it’s really pretending anymore.”

“Sounds lonely.” Greg almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, somber and hoarse.

“Yeah.” John nods in agreement. “Maybe it’s the inverse form of defensiveness.”

“You can’t get rejected for the real you, if no one knows the real you,” Greg says quietly.

“That’s the size of it, I reckon.”

The weight of the conversation sits heavy on the table. Eventually they move on to other things, or they probably do, but Greg is on autopilot, sifting through the new information. When he gets home, Mycroft has his Work Headphones on again, but Greg still sidles up next to him and drops a gentle kiss on his forehead before heading to bed alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments of encouragement! More to come :)


	3. Pub, with Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock drags Greg to the pub. 
> 
> Yes, you read that correctly.

When Sherlock appears at his office, it’s all Greg can do not to drop his head on his desk and groan. He doesn’t bother to hide the edge in his voice: “I don’t have a case for you.”

“Not here for a case,” Sherlock volleys back, and sinks gracefully into the same chair John had days prior. 

Greg sighs. “What do you want then?”

“We’re going to the pub.”

“We’re going to...no we’re not, I’m _working,_ Sherlock, I don’t have time to...wait. The _pub_?”

Sherlock stands decisively. “Yes the pub, Lestrade. It’s past work hours, and you haven’t made proper progress on anything other than the bags under your eyes for the last hour and a half.”

Greg really does groan this time, rubbing slow circles around his temples. It’s a testament to his tiredness, and perhaps unwillingness to go home, that he gets up and follows Sherlock out the door, all the way to the very same pub he’d gone with John. He eyes him warily.

“We’re really at the pub.” It wasn’t a question, so he’s not surprised to receive no answer. “Why?”

“I want Mycrot to see us here,” Sherlock says, face tilted up towards the closest CCTV. He waggles his fingers at it before striding inside.

They sit at the same booth.

“I thought you hated pubs.”

“I do.” Sherlock doesn’t elaborate further. His glass of water sits untouched in front of him. 

Greg’s cider drips slow condensation onto the table. He eyes it tiredly, wishing they could have gone to a restaurant instead. Sherlock hums.

“You’re right,” he says, standing up again. “You require sustenance.”

 _Why did we even come, then?_ Greg grumbles to himself. Once they’re back on the street, Sherlock stops him with a gentle touch. He looks meaningfully from Greg to the CCTV again, then starts off in the direction of Greg’s favorite food truck. 

“You’re paying!” he calls over his shoulder.

Apparently when John had come home from the pub with Greg, the contents of their conversation had been blindingly obvious. At least that’s the way Sherlock tells it.

“He looked at me with those pathetic, puppy-dog eyes, you know the ones.”

Greg nods his assent. In his head, a thoughtful John had slipped quietly into 221B and looked at Sherlock long and hard, his expression laced with concern and worry and sadness. He probably asked some not-so-subtle questions about Sherlock’s social life, maybe prodded for more information about what growing up was like for the Holmes children. 

“He asked if my methods of deduction were purposely couched to put people off!”

... _nope, not subtle_. 

“I told him of course they are,” Sherlock grumbles, “why would I want people to like me? People are _boring_.” Seeming to recognize how unconvincing that sounds, he continues, “He even asked about my general happiness!”

Greg is amused at Sherlock’s affronted tone despite himself. “And what did you tell him?”

“That I am happy, obviously. Well, actually I showed him--”

“SHERLOCK.”

“And then he wanted to cuddle after---”

“LA-LA-LA-LA,” Greg plugs his ears and sings wildly. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“--after we were _intimate,_ and he sighed a lot. Seemed rather maudlin.” 

From all this, Sherlock had concluded that Greg was on the right track with Mycroft but had made “insufficient progress.” 

“So, what are you suggesting?” Greg asks, rather in shock that he is asking, and that he even intends to listen. 

“I’m suggesting nothing.”

“Sherlock.” Greg's jaw tightens. “I don’t need this from you.”

“This,” Sherlock enunciates quietly, looking past Greg at something over his shoulder, “is not for your benefit.”

Greg turns around, figures that Sherlock must once again be staring at another CCTV. By the time he’s turned back around, Sherlock has gone, the foil wrapper left crumpled on the small rickety table. Greg watches his tall figure stride swiftly through the night and disappear around the corner.


	4. Office, to pool. (Then, home.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea steps in. Mycroft reflects.

As he always does when avoiding difficult personal _situations_ , Mycroft throws himself into his work. Given that most people consider him married to his work already, it’s likely most don’t notice. He knows Anthea notices, but she doesn’t comment. He also knows that Anthea knows he knows, and it is through pointless circles of reasoning like this that he pretends to keep his mind busy, and thus avoids addressing the root of the problem.

What is there to do, anyway? He’s frozen. At an impasse. The ball is in the other court. It’s Gregory’s move, and yet Mycroft isn’t sure when Gregory became the opponent, proverbial chess game, tennis match, or not. 

Anthea enters his office without knocking. He doesn’t bother removing his hands from his face, choosing instead to mumble: 

“The meeting at two--”

“Her ladyship expresses dismay at your poor health and wishes you a speedy recovery.”

Mycroft lifts his head to frown at her. “I’m feeling perfectly fine--”

“I have taken the liberty of cancelling, rescheduling, or delegating your meetings for the rest of the day, sir. The doctor says that as you are only mildly contagious, exercise would do you well and that a chlorinated pool might even negate any concerns on the contagion front.”

“That’s not scientifically--”

“Your club’s pool has been cleared out between the hours of two and four, sir. Would be a waste to not make use of it.”

 _Oh._ He takes a moment to really look at Anthea. Her face is blank, but he can see the worry crease puckering her forehead. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and goes off to do as she suggests. 

Underwater, everything is muffled. His legs coil, then push off, slicing through the cool sensation slipping over his skin. For many laps, there are no thoughts. Only the rhythm of his body working in perfect tandem with itself, punctuated by the powerful rush of a smooth flip-turn as he explodes off the wall. Swimming is the rare time he feels at home in his body, sleek and smooth and graceful, dorky goggles notwithstanding. Eventually his lungs are screaming with exhaustion, and he flips over to a slow backstroke. He notes his pulse rate slowing. Notes the ripples sluicing around his body. The light fogging of his goggles. The rise and fall of his chest; the tightness in his jaw. His fingers bump up against the edge of the pool.

He knows he will smell of chlorine when he returns home. Home. _Gregory_. He lathers conditioner absentmindedly, leaning back to rinse off in the hot shower and replaying the footage of Gregory’s surveillance from the last few days. 

Sherlock is not famous for his subtlety, but Mycroft is struggling not to resent his interference. _Pot, kettle._

Pretending is children’s make-believe.  
Performing is theatrical.  
Lying is necessary, sometimes.

The lines between them are nebulous at best, and at worst...well. Are perfectly overlapping circles still a Venn Diagram?

He shakes his head at his own foolishness. If only he could shake the memories of his young self that he knows Sherlock stirred up on purpose. 

_I don’t even know who you ARE anymore!_

Mycroft no longer remembers what in particular had set off eight-years-and-two-months-old Sherlock, but he still remembers cradling his sobbing younger brother, rubbing mindless circles on his back while silently answering, _I don’t know, either, Sherlock._

A deeper fear struck Mycroft later: the fear that he had _never_ known who he was. He doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t acting--whether pretending, performing or lying-- and that weight tethers him to the bottom of his sea of doubt. 

Not that he ascribes to the turn-of-the-century nonsense of “true self.” If all of humanity followed it’s base instincts unfiltered by any sense of community imperative...well. We live in a society for our own good, and sometimes that means sacrifices for the greater good. If only he could remember what exactly he’d sacrificed.

Sometimes, these philosophical meanderings take him to a place laughingly close to children’s creative writing classes. _Who are you?_ The easy answers are, of course, titles, functions, and descriptions.

_I am Mycroft Holmes. Minor government official. British citizen. Older brother. Boyfriend. Fifty-four years of age. 1.86 m._

It is not lost on him that he clings to his career as his only shred of self. He also knows, cognitively, that there’s more to it than that. Who is he without his work? For that matter, who is Sherlock? Although it seems that the presence of one Dr. John H. Watson has expanded his younger brother’s perception of his own life’s purpose. But are we not more than how we relate to others? If Sherlock died, or if--if Gregory left him, Mycroft would remain himself. 

Perhaps a broken version of himself, but himself nonetheless.

For most of his life, he has told himself it mattered little who he was, choosing instead to focus on what he did. Influence. Power. Responsibility. Impact. 

But Gregory deserves a partner equal in merit and goodness, and compatible in personality and character. Mycroft looks at himself, and finds himself wanting. 

He returns home to find Gregory hunched over the countertop. His brow is furrowed. Mycroft watches him, noting the tense set of his shoulders and chew marks on the cap of the pen tap-tapping on the counter. He doesn’t notice Mycroft coming up behind him until his shadow darkens the papers. He looks up, a tired smile lighting up his face as quickly as it disappears, and then he looks wary.

“Bringing work home?” Mycroft asks lightly, hoping that his tone conveys gentle teasing and not judgment. Just in case, he smooths his hand down Gregory’s wrist to rest gently on his tense fist. Gregory relaxes a little. He shrugs his shoulders, the corners of his mouth tugging up a little.

“Shall I put on a film?”

Gregory looks down at his papers then back up, clearly torn.

“In an hour?” Mycroft bargains, and is rewarded with a grateful, perhaps even hopeful, smile.

“Yes.”

An hour later Mycroft sinks down into his usual corner of the sofa, irritated that he feels nervous. Gregory walks in, sees him perched gingerly on the cushions, and barks a surprised laugh that shatters the rigid tension in the room. Mycroft smiles ruefully. Gregory puts something on and sits beside him, not quite touching.

For several minutes Mycroft has no attention for the film, so strongly is he focused on the centimeter of space between their legs. It feels unaccountably silly, yet, it’s true: he can’t relax. He catalogues Gregory’s posture, the rate of his breathing, the tension in his jaw and the pulse beating in his neck. He can tell Gregory knows he’s looking, but he remains resolutely facing forward. Finally, without looking over, he nudges Mycroft with his elbow. 

“Budge up.”

Mycroft exhales and leans back into the crook of the couch, pivoting his body slightly. He watches, captivated, as Gregory glances over, his smile small but wry, and sighs as he finally leans sideways, resting his head on his chest. It takes a while for his breath to find an easy rhythm. In the meantime, Gregory has relaxed into him, and he wraps his arm carefully around him. He doesn’t watch the movie, just the shadows and colors dancing across his lover's face. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd actually already had most of the first chapter written and then saw the prompt and was like huh, that really fits. Thank you for the kudos and comments that have helped propel me toward the end!


End file.
